CoverBoys & Curses (3 page)

Chapter Seven

The
Morning After

MORNING
LIGHT FLOODED the quaint bungalow. Brock stirred from under the sheets, arching
his back to glance up at the clock.

I’d
already showered and dressed in my standard office couture, ready to go.

“You’re
making me feel cheap, my dear,” Brock said.

“What are
you talking about?”

“You
aren’t even going to let me finish what I started last night? How about you at
least buy me breakfast?”

“Sorry.
I have a working breakfast.”

Brock
sat up, looking pale and tired. I could see the fast pace of his pulse ticking
on the side of his temples. “You know, Laurs, I’m still grieving, too. I feel
like shit that I didn’t make it to Payton’s funeral. She was my friend, too.
That girl had no reason to die.”

I
elected not to tell him about the phone call. Or my dream. A disturbing thought
crossed my mind. I was sure Brock had slept with my friend, Sterling Falls. Had
he done Payton, too? “Look, Brock, I just have a lot of things on my mind.”

Brock
went to the bathroom. Any jealousy I did or did not feel ended when I looked
through the window and across the hotel grounds. Two men stood near the side of
another bungalow. One was on a cell phone. The other had a huge camera zoom
lens aimed right at me. They fled when they realized I’d spotted them. I think.

Or maybe
I was crazy. Maybe I only imagined they fled. Or that they were there at all.

Chapter Eight

Roots

AN
IMPULSE SEIZED ME on my way to breakfast. I phoned the detective in Tucson. I
told him about the call. I reminded him of Payton’s missing brother.

“Don’t
you understand?” I urged him. “The caller said it wasn’t a suicide. I believe
him.”

“Ms.
Visconti, you don’t even know who
him
is. The case is closed. It was a suicide, and from what you’ve just told me
about her missing brother she must have never gotten over it. The suicide
serves to confirm it.

“With
all due respect, these things happen all the time. People with nothing better
to do read something in the paper and get off on stirring things up. And you
have quite a name out there that makes you a special target for weirdos.”

“It’s
not like I’m a celebrity.”

“No. But
you have a reputation. People know your name. If you need further assistance, I
suggest you contact your local police department.”

LOOKING
OVER MY SHOULDER all the way, I stormed toward the restaurant for breakfast still
wary about any intrusive intent behind the men and their camera. It certainly
wasn’t the paparazzi unless they mistook me for some Hollywood starlet. I was
already used to the buzzing of low flying helicopters trying to cop a million
dollar photo of anybody who is somebody around the hotel grounds, but that
wouldn’t be me.
Maybe they were only
photographing the stunning buildings and landscaping. I just happened to be
square in the middle of their photo shoot.

The
phone call was another story. The caller
knew
my name. Was it a warning or a threat he delivered? Why?

By the
time I entered the café Sukie and Geoff were already gobbling down French toast
and asking for coffee refills. Sukie’s beautiful Asian face, sprinkled with
powdered sugar from the brioche, glistened in the dappled morning sunlight.

“You
guys certainly adapt well to foreign land,” I joked as I took a seat in the
booth.

“It’s
all about learning their customs,” Geoff said.

We each
had a full day ahead. Sterling’s real estate friend had already sold me a beach
house. I was waiting for Carly to work her design magic on it before moving in.
I liked the agent, Gabriella Criscione. She may have been a little over the
top, but she knew Los Angeles and Malibu real estate and she knew how to kiss
ass. It worked for me. Gabri, as friends called her, had now lined up
commercial properties for me to tour. Out of her list of seven, I had zeroed in
on four. The pressure for me to find space and find it fast could have
overwhelmed me if not for Gabri. Key staff planned on working from hotel rooms
and street-side bistros until I could find us corporate offices. Cash is King,
so said my father. If a property had a clear title I could close on it quickly.
  

“Earth
to Lauren,” Sukie said. “That’s not just stress drawing your face up into a knot.”

Sure, I
had angst about buying an office building. But Sukie made me stop and ask
myself why my stomach felt like I’d swallowed a live
Longjaw
Mud Snapper.

“Geoff,
let me ask you something,” I said. “You know all the email texting lingo stuff,
don’t you?

“What do
you mean?”

“The
shorthand. Like
LOL
and
JK
?”

“It’s
not exactly technical information, but yes, I guess I do.”

I had
memorized Payton’s email.

Saguaro
National Forest. CAC. 3 Skeletons.

    
Import

 
“What does
CAC
mean?”

Geoff
shot a glance at Sukie and they both shrugged. “I haven’t seen that one,” she
said.

“Let’s
see. There’s
CAS
. Crack a smile.
CAAC
is cool as a cucumber,” Geoff said.

I
grimaced. No good.

“It’s
not texting, but what about the Paris Bourse? The CAC-40,” Sukie suggested.

The
Paris market index? That didn’t make sense, either. Not that I knew. Payton
resented anything French, probably only because she thought the French resented
anything American.

“Does
3 Skeletons
mean anything?”

“Not in
the land of the living texting. Not that I know. Why?”

“Someone
sent me an email I don’t understand.”

“Ever
think of calling them up and just asking them?” Sukie grinned.

I turned
to her. Her voice came off as sarcastic, but I quickly realized she didn’t know
the
them
was dead. “What would a
seven, maybe nine inch lens do for a digital camera?”

“Hard to
say, but it’s a big boy’s tool. You might as well open up a planetarium.”

Geoff
laughed, “Oh, dear God, don’t use that on me when I have a zit coming on.”

“What’s
with all these questions?” Sukie asked.

I
shuffled papers around in front of me, opting to change the conversation rather
than think about the camera lens pointed my way. “Sukie, how many interviews do
you have lined up?”

She
raised her almond eyes, framed with thin brows beginning to gray. Her eyes
served as a constant reminder of what Sukie was. A private woman. Gifted behind
the camera, I knew little else about the mysterious photographer. The only
thing I really understood was that she was even-keeled and dependable. Since
most artists of her caliber were temperamental, eccentric, and erratic in their
performance, at best, I counted myself lucky.

Sukie
said, “I’ve lined up a baker’s dozen, all with ample studio time to shoot them
once you tell me where. They’re seasoned print models, and I have about fifty
more if I need them. This town’s flooded with hunk-of-the-month wannabes.”

“Hey,
Laurs,” Geoff interjected. “Just how much longer are we supposed to keep our
new project a secret? You know I don’t do good secret.”

“Not
much longer, Queen. I’m organizing a press party gala for our grand opening,
assuming we have a place to cut the ribbon. With a little luck, when we do come
out of our closet the whole country will know our secret overnight.”

Geoff
smiled.

I was
still thinking about the email I had received from Payton. The police told me
that typing the email and sending it to me was the last thing Payton did on
this earth. Before blowing her brains out.

What did
that last word mean? Import? Import what? And why didn’t she sign it like she
usually did? And why was it so cryptic?

I should
have mentioned it to the detective again. Payton always signed her emails to
me. Always. It was a programmed signature.

Chapter Nine

Riches,
Roses, & Robberies

GABRIELLA
CRISCIONE KNEW she was one extraordinary real estate agent. She did it all.
Residential, commercial, land and sand. As long as they were million dollar
deals, she was your woman.

Well
connected and a pro at client interviews over orgasmic pasta lunches, it didn’t
take her long to figure out Lauren Visconti wore deep pockets. She only had to
show the girl four homes on the beach, knowing exactly what she was doing when
she saved the best and by far the most expensive one, for last.

Four
must have been her lucky number, because that’s exactly how many showings it
took to sell Lauren Visconti her new corporate offices. Gabri probably didn’t
fool the girl when she threw in some real dog properties to solidify the buying
decision. Showing Lauren Visconti a couple not too-perfect alternatives only
proved that she needed to spend a couple million more than she had planned on
in order to get what she needed. Gabri considered herself Master Enabler in all
of it.

Gabri
worked hard. And smart. Maybe she was a little pushy, but she liked it that
way. And she always remembered her manners. She had to think of some way to
express gratitude to Sterling Falls for referring the Visconti girl to her.

I
DON’T THINK IT was buyer’s remorse eating at me, even though my purchase offer
on the twelve-story building was signed and off to the seller without much
blinking on my part.
CoverBoy
had a
home. That should have left me thrilled.

Maybe
the seclusion of the hotel bungalow was too quiet after the taxing day. I
looked around at its living room and bedroom. I shouldn’t have been surprised
that all traces of Brock were gone. Did I expect to find him in the reading
chair or out on the patio? Was he supposed to stay in bed all day?

No red
roses. No yellow roses. No yellow sticky note, for that matter. I took in a
deep breath, well aware that I was trying to pick up the scent of his musky
aftershave. Fresh bed linens and the lemony fresh smell that follows the maids,
as thick as contrails of a jet, had removed any lingering waft of the salty
sultry man-smell from the night before.

I
functioned on autopilot, finding myself exhausted and exhilarated at the same
time. I opened the bedroom entertainment armoire, then peered through the wood
blinds to make sure no cameras were aimed my way, then laughed at myself for
the paranoia. I lunged onto the empty bed with the TV remote in hand. After
mindlessly surfing the channels for a few minutes I settled on the local
evening news.

A
bleached-blond bimbo advertised her new line of jewelry. Instantly I felt a
pang of guilt. Damn. She reminded me of Sterling. I needed to call her. I
promised her I would as soon as I arrived into town. I can’t explain my friendship
with Sterling, except that everything outrageously over-
glitzed
about her seemed to be matched by the songs of heaven’s laughter.

When I
reached for the phone to call her, I spied the three athletic bags the would-be
car thieves left behind. The bellhop must have brought them in by mistake. They
sat beneath the luggage bench with my half-opened cases on top.

Chapter Ten

Stolen
Goods

CURIOSITY
KILLS THE CAT. I jumped off the bed, grabbed the bags and zipped open the first
one, heavy but also almost empty. Auto parts? The only pieces I could positively
identify were a small CD/DVD car component, a GPS, and a couple sets of car
keys. One had the familiar Jaguar emblem and another one, Porsche. I presume
the thieves had a productive night. And excellent taste.

Unzipping
the second bag, I pulled out two brand new shoeboxes. Running shoes. If I
remembered the ads in the newspaper, they ran about three hundred dollars a
pair. No receipts, of course.

Crumpled
newspaper filled the inside of the third bag. Reaching deep inside, I pulled
out three wallets. The little bandits weren’t just in the auto business.

It
appeared they hadn’t yet rummaged through the wallets. Cash, credit cards and
drivers’ licenses all seemed to be intact.

“Just
great,” I mumbled aloud to myself. “I’ve been here less than 48 hours and I’ve
witnessed an attempted car heist, engaged in mindless sex, and now I have three
stolen wallets in my possession.” Brock was right. The police wouldn’t consider
it a high priority. I’d mail the wallets to the addresses listed on the
licenses in the morning. I tossed the shoes back in the bag and zipped it
closed, wishing I could do the same with Brock Townsend.

The
stresses of the day gnawed at me, and sometime after the early evening news I
drifted into a deep sleep. The phone stirred me to consciousness. I couldn’t
believe the time.
 
The sunset was casting
shadows of orange on the wall; its light show competed with the muted news
broadcast still running on the television.

Leave
Brock horny, I thought. He’ll come running back for more, every time.

“Hey
there,” I answered.

“Hey
there to you. Forget about me?” The sharp soprano voice drilled my ears.

“I’m
sorry. Who’s calling?” I mumbled.

“Jeez,
Lauren. It’s Sterling. As in Sterling Falls. Supposed to be a dear friend of
yours. At least any time you want to borrow some ten-carat bauble.”

“Sterling.
I meant to call. I just got into town and I’ve been slammed.”

“That’s
not what Brock said. He told me you came in yesterday.”

“Brock
told you that?”

“We went
to the theater tonight, decided we were hungry and grabbed a bite to eat over
at Crustacean. Your name came up over dinner.”

I felt
like a coiled serpent, circling and circling with no one near enough to strike
with my venom. Crying, screaming, kicking—all viable options. Brock goes to bed
with my friend the very next night after having sex with me? Okay. She didn’t
say they went home together. But it’s Brock. And Sterling. I don’t think they
wrapped up the night chatting over a game of Mahjong.

“It’s
late,” I stammered. “I should get some sleep.”

“Man,
you sound cranky. Get your beauty sleep.”

“Yeah.
I’m tired. Real tired. I’ll call you in a couple days after I get settled.”

Sleep
fought me all the way, refusing to offer sanctuary. When finally I drifted off,
the Technicolor nightmare seized control of my night’s slumber, again. The
church was the same. My gown turning to paper, and the loud music, and the fire
and the man walking me down the aisle—they were all the same. But this time
Payton stood in the corner, waving at me. And she and I were the only two not
succumbing to the flames and smoke. Payton was very much alive. Resilient to
death’s fury.

The
sweat soaked my pillowcase. Tears, as well. I sat up and took a sip of water
from the nightstand. I don’t know what was worse. The nightmare or the remnants
of my true history creeping back into my mind.

There
had been no wedding for me. On the eve of the marriage, a knock on my hotel door
interrupted the celebration with my bridesmaids. The uniformed officers
informed me that a freak storm had taken down the Visconti family jet. On
board: the pilot, copilot, my beloved father, my fiancé, plus a couple of his
groomsmen. No one survived impact.

From a
second room in the suite, Sterling had heard my wails and rushed in beside me
wearing nothing but a green thong and a T-shirt. A damn Dodgers T-shirt.

Memories.
Nightmares. Reality. I understand sadness. I even understand fear. But jealousy
is an odd emotion, isn’t it? I closed my eyes and shut out any last bit of
feeling I might have left residing in my heart.